The goblins paused for the briefest of instants before they pounced, nearly as one. Bone daggers were flying at her from all directions, snarling bestial maws leering out of the shadows, their shrill savage yells filling the forest.
Instinct took over. She dodged the first attack, now she had her sword in her hand. She caught the closest one in the arm with a rough chop, and with a sickening wet ease a wide gash opened. The thing recoiled in pain, howling horribly.
Meanwhile her hound had caught one by the neck, as dogs will do, and was tossing it around like toy. A second lunged at Teauria in anger as the first fell away, but she spun around and hit the goblin’s dagger hard enough to shatter it. Before it could respond, she struck with a brutal violence that surprised herself in that moment, awaking a primitive warrior able to survive on her own. Her enemy looked down at the terrible wound in its chest, its lifeblood dripping to the soil. It crumpled in agony.
She paused a moment, suddenly unsure of her new accomplishment. Then she was on her back, covered in angry goblins.
They clawed and bit at her, tore at her bags, her hair. She slashed with her sword but it was knocked away; she heard the hound yelping in pain.
Teauria was bleeding. She could feel it dampening her clothes in too many places. She punched and picked and elbowed and writhed but it was no good. She began screaming, blood curdling yowls of primal grief and betrayal, beyond the physical pain.
Suddenly the howls of goblins added to her own; they were screaming. They were dying, not her.
Just as suddenly, it was over. The monsters were gone. She leaned up to look around, puzzled.
Then she passed out, overwhelmed.
